


Another's Happiness

by Madame_Forget_Me_Not



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Kidnapping, M/M, Moving On, break ups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-08 13:35:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16430384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madame_Forget_Me_Not/pseuds/Madame_Forget_Me_Not
Summary: Molly and Greg are set to marry in a few months time. However, when old feelings and past relationships are rediscovered after a mysterious kidnapping incident, emotional confusion begins. Molly/Lestrade, Mystrade, Mary/John (barely), hints of one-sided Johnlock, and a bit of smut, all mixed up in a big bowl of angst. Open-ending. Complete. I'm so sorry.Transferring all my works from fanfiction.net so this is...old.





	Another's Happiness

"What's going on?" she asked, her tiny voice barely managing to echo in the abandoned garage. "Who are you?"

"Ms. Hooper," the man said from the shadows, "won't you please have a seat?"

She noticed his voice was smooth, like a good whiskey, and like the drink would probably come with a burn. She sat.

"Excellent, thank you so much," The man stepped forward. He was rather tall, with thinning auburn hair and sharp features. His suit was made to be stylish but inconspicuous, tailored perfectly for his build. The umbrella in his hand seemed to be an object of power.

"Who are you?" she asked again, putting on a brave face.

"It's not important that you know my name. What is important is that you know what I am capable of." The man kept a polite face.

"And what is that, besides kidnapping women in the middle of the night?"

"I am capable of much more than that, Ms. Hooper."

"Not for long; you made a mistake in taking me. My fiancé is a Detective Inspector with Scotland Yard. He's intelligent, and he's capable, and he'll-"

"Gregory Lestrade will do  _what_ to me? Arrest me? Hardly- he couldn't if he tried," the man smirked. Responding to the shocked look on Molly's face, he went on, "Yes, I know your fiancé; I know much of him."

"If…if he doesn't stop you, then Sherlock will," she glared. "That's right, I know Sherlock Holmes. I'm important to him. He'll do what is necessary to find me. I've never met someone smarter than him, and I knew Moriarty."

"You  _knew_ Moriarty," Mycroft smiled, "biblically." She paled. "Oh yes, I'm aware of your little tryst. The question is: does Gregory?"

"I didn't know who he was," she shook her head. "And people greater than me have been tricked by him. You aren't going to get in my head that way. I've faced my demons."

She wasn't weak like many people thought her. No, Molly had slept with Jim Moriarty, slapped Sherlock Holmes, and had Scotland Yard's finest on his knees. She was more than she seemed, smart and emotionally strong. She wasn't willing to take some sadistic stranger's shit just because he thought himself above her.

"You mentioned Sherlock Holmes. Allow me to break your misconstrued view of reality: Sherlock was nothing before me," he gave that lifeless smile. "And Jim Moriarty is dead because of my efforts. You're wrong. You've met someone smarter than Sherlock Holmes, but that is besides the point. I brought you here to tell you something important.

"What?" she snapped.

"Gregory Lestrade is a man of layers, Ms. Hooper," he inspected the tip of his umbrella. "He sacrifices himself daily for his job, but I'm sure you know that by now. He sacrifices himself in all aspects of his life, including with his chosen partners. Remember to sacrifice for him as well. He gives and gives, not realizing there will be a day when he has nothing left. Then, a broken and incomplete man, he will leave. This has happened in his past two long-term relationships. Don't be the third, Ms. Hooper. Take care of him."

The man turned around and began to walk away.

"Why does my relationship matter to you?" she called out, deeply confused.

The man paused, turning around. His eyes, she noticed, had a very detached quality.

"It doesn't."

As he strode away, he twirled his umbrella.

His assistant, focused on her Blackberry, came to stand beside Molly.

"I'm supposed to take you home."

XXX

Greg got home around eleven. He had brought take out with him and was in a good mood.

"Molly, I'm back!"

"Bedroom," he heard the soft reply. Concerned, he followed the voice back. She was sitting on the bed in pink pajamas, Toby curled up in her lap with some American supernatural show playing on the telly.

"Molly, love, what's wrong?" he asked, sitting next to her.

"I was taken today." Before Greg could manage a question, she spoke over him. "He didn't hurt me. There was no violence, and after I met him, I wasn't even concerned he would take advantage of me. This may be naivety, but he didn't seem the kind."

Greg felt a knot of dread coil in his gut. "What did he look like?"

"Auburn hair, sharp nose, dressed in a suit; he never let go of his umbrella, but what got me were his  _eyes_ …his eyes, Greg, I couldn't look away. They were terrifying."

He swallowed around a lump in his throat, "Why?"

"They were cold, desolate; they say eyes are the window to the soul….if that's so, I don't think he has one. They appeared dead, and I do post-mortems." She shivered as a chill went up her spine.

"And what did the man say to you?"

"Basically, to be as giving to you as you are to me, or I'll lose you," she finally met Greg's gaze. "As unlikely as it was, after telling me he was smarter than Sherlock and Moriarty, he gave me relationship advice. Why would he do that?"

Greg couldn't resist a small smile. "Sentiment."

"What?"

"Molly, you believe in honesty in a relationship, right?" Greg asked, bracing himself for this conversation.

"Yes, of course," she nodded.

"Then I'll tell you that I know the man, and I can't arrest him," he said. She nodded slowly.

"Who is he?"

"His name is Mycroft Holmes. He's Sherlock's older brother. If categorizing the two, he would be 'the smart one' according to them. He truly is the most brilliant man I've ever met," he pressed his lips together tightly.

"And he kidnaps people?" Molly scoffed. "The most brilliant mind, and he goes around  _kidnapping people_?!"

"Only the important ones," Greg shook his head. "He kidnapped me when Sherlock first began consulting. He kidnapped John when he moved into Baker Street. He kidnapped you because…well…"

"Because I work with Sherlock? He should have done that long ago, if that were the case."

"No, sweetheart, he did it because you're going to marry me."

"Why does that matter?" she asked.

"Because," Greg watched her carefully, "we used to live together."

Molly took a moment to process that. "As is…you used to date him?"

"Yes," he paused. "Well, there weren't many 'dates' per se, what with his job and mine. The British Government doesn't have much time for relationships-"

"What do you mean, the British Government?" she stopped his babbling.

He flinched. "Shit, I wasn't really supposed to say that. Suffice to say, more than the Prime Minister, Mycroft has the power. MI6 is his plaything."

"Seriously?" she scoffed. Greg nodded. "He could have me killed."

Greg's protective instincts told him to grab her, comfort her, and refuse to let anyone get ahold of her. Then he remembered just who they were dealing with.

"He wouldn't because you make me happy. For all his selfish tendencies and emotional incompetence, Mycroft want the people be loves to be safe, secure, and happy, in that order. He's more protective than I am, Molly, and that's saying something. It's because of that that he wouldn't hurt you, because it would, in turn, hurt me."

"You're sure?" she gripped his hand tightly.

"I was in love with him, Molly, and despite his professed hatred for emotional connection, he was in love with me. I know him. He just wanted to make sure I'm taken care of."

"Why are you just writing this off? You're a policeman, and he kidnaps people!" she asked, getting angry.

"Because he…well, he's just Mycroft. It's how he is."

"It's not right, Greg! Imagine this were Tom kidnapping you to give advice regarding me!"

"Tom was a shit boyfriend, you said so yourself," Greg said.

"Greg!" she smacked him with a pillow. "Really not the point!"

"Yeah, I see what you're getting at…but what do you want me to do?" he asked.

She sighed, "Go to his place, talk with him about this, and make things clear. I can't deal with anymore unexpected trips, Greg."

"Yeah, okay," he agreed, standing up from the bed. "I'll be back, eventually then."

"Hey," she said, grabbing his sleeve. "I love you."

He kissed her gently. "I love you, too."

The drive was quick and familiar on Greg's bike. He parked in front of the house rather than behind in what used to be his spot and he missed the feeling of coming home when looking at the white town house.

He knocked on the door and waited a few moments before the door opened. Anthea was there, for once not on the phone, and she gave him an unreadable look.

"I was just leaving; he's in the kitchen. It was a hard day, so try not to be too aggravating." She walked past him, leaving the door open.

"I missed you, too!" he called out.

Stepping into the entry way, he saw the umbrella in the stand by the door. It caused a wave of nostalgia to hit him, remember late days at the office, expecting to come home to an empty house, and instead the sight of the umbrella made his entire night brighter. He wasn't going to be alone.

" _Get your shit together, Lestrade. It's just a damn umbrella._ " He thought.

He walked briskly back to the kitchen, and he took a moment to absorb the sight of his ex.

Mycroft was watching a small telly that was built into the cabinets on which was playing a cooking show. He was in his white button up, the top buttons undone. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing his paternal grandfather's gold watch on his left wrist. His slacks were still finely pressed, but he had on only gray dress socks. He looked entirely at home, focused on the task of preparing the meal in front of him. When the show went to break, he looked up, distant eyes taking in everything about Greg's appearance.

"Hello, Gregory," he said.

"Hey, Mycroft," Greg swallowed nervously. He couldn't think of what to say. "So I see Anthea still hates me."

"She still believes you're a distraction from the work," Mycroft murmured as his eyes remained focused on his former partner.

"Am I?"

"That's not what you're here to talk about," Mycroft looked back to the show. Greg knew better than to think he was being ignored.

"You confronted Molly today," he began. Mycroft gave a low hum of acknowledgement. "Why are you meddling?"

"It is what I do, Gregory, you know that," Mycroft took out spices from the high cabinets. "I pull the strings in various people's lives, run the country, and make a magnificent casserole."

"Not…not my life, Mycroft, and not hers…not anymore."

Mycroft looked up at him, really focused for the first time.

"Your safety is a concern. You were connected to me, therefore you are still a target," he explained.

"Beyond my safety, then," Greg snapped. "This wasn't a matter of safety."

"No," Mycroft agreed with a melancholy look on his face. "It was a matter of your happiness."

"She makes me happy, without your help," Greg narrowed his eyes. Mycroft lips twitched, just fractionally, but that was a big tell for him.

"Apologies, I see my help was unnecessary. Now, if that's all, please leave."

"No, that's not all," Greg sighed, running a hand over his face. "Put down the casserole and come talk with me."

"No, I'm finishing it first," Mycroft shook his head.

"You can finish it later. We need to talk now," Greg insisted.

"Casserole first," Mycroft refused to look up.

"No, we need to-"

Mycroft's hand came down on the counter with a loud smack, his face twisted with anger. "I AM FINISHING THIS DAMNED CASSEROLE BEFORE WE SPEAK, AND THAT IS FINAL!"

"Okay," Greg said softly, hands held out in an "I surrender" gesture. "Okay, My, I'm going out to the living room. Join me when you're finished."

Greg scampered off, pretending he didn't see the hand that wiped over Mycroft's face along with the hunched shoulders. He resisted the urge to offer comfort.

Twenty minutes later, Mycroft came into the room much more composed than he had been previously. He sat on the edge of the couch Greg was sitting on. He gave him a look that clearly said, "Go on, then."

"My, you can't just…intervene because you decide to."

"I can, and I do."

"Well, you won't anymore, not with my life," Greg said. "You lost the right when we broke up."

"That wasn't my choice," Mycroft replied.

"Of course it was," Greg snapped. "You stopped caring."

"I never did such a thing!"

"You didn't return my calls, you didn't show up for a week; when you did, you wouldn't speak to me, you wouldn't touch me, nothing! What was I supposed to think?"

"Something happened with the work," Mycroft shook his head. "Then you became dissatisfied. I assumed I was no longer welcome and you would speak to me when I was. Then you left."

"Something with the work…the work always came first," Greg complained.

"You knew this when getting involved with me," Mycroft said defensively.

"I had hoped that maybe, one day, there would be just one time that I came first instead," Greg said. "I was fine, coming second for the longest time, but then, I couldn't anymore. Don't you see?"

Brown eyes met blue, and there was a long distance felt.

"I do," Mycroft said softly, reached a hand across the void and laying it on Greg's knee gently. "And I understand now why you left. You deserve every happiness, Gregory, I'm just…sad that I couldn't be the one to give it to you. I wanted to ensure, however, that someone could."

Seeing the amount of care and devotion in the man's eyes, Gregory felt a part of him break. He launched himself at Mycroft, smothering his lips with his own, and when their tongues met for the first time in a year, it felt like home.

"Buggering fuck, I've missed you," Greg ripped at the other man's short, sending buttons flying in his haste to get hands on him.

"I've missed you as well," Mycroft was gentler with the other man's clothing, seeing as he was the one who needed to go home looking somewhat put together.

"I need you to take me, please, My," Greg tried to ignore the hot tears running down his face. "I need to feel whole again."

"Whatever you desire, love," Mycroft kissed away his tears. "Whatever you desire, I'll do it."

The rest of their clothing was removed, with haste, but was the practiced movements of people who had been together for an extended period of time. Every time more skin was revealed, they took a moment to worship it, but only a moment.

Mycroft reached for the drawer, pulling out the lubricant he still had stashed there and quickly prepared the man in front of him.

Greg was bare, emotionally and physically, but there was a part of him thriving as his muscles were stretched after months of disuse. There was no need when he had a willing wife at home. There was never a question of who would top. There wasn't a great deal of money spent on lube, as much of it was produced naturally. There wasn't the small battle for dominance as testosterone filled bodies met and clashed and came together.

And dear lord how he had missed it.

He missed the stretch and the slight burn and the pressure changing to pleasure as knowing fingers, long and elegant and  _male_ found the right spot and-

" _Oh_ , oh god, My, please, I need you,  _now_!"

"Okay, love, okay," Mycroft positioned himself before slides in with one smooth thrust. He paused, holding very still as they both adjusted. Soon, though, Greg's legs wrapped around Mycroft's waist, pulling him down roughly. They began moving in earnest, at one point sliding off the couch and onto the floor. Greg grabbed at the rug under him, arching his back as Mycroft hit his prostate over and over again.

"Gregory, I need you to come for me," Mycroft begged. Greg preferred to come from prostate stimulation alone when he had the choice, but it had been awhile for both of them. Mycroft was stubborn, however, and he held his body in check long enough for Gregory to find his release. However, as soon as he saw Greg's face shift into his orgasm expression, he let himself go, barely managing to keep his eyes open to watch Greg in his moment of bliss.

He relaxed, laying half on Greg and half on the rug. They held each other tightly, neither mentioning the other's tears. Holding on, however, broke Mycroft's heart just a bit more, because he remembered the thoughts that had flitted through his brain as he removed Greg's clothes; although they now smelled like each other, previously h had smelled like his fiancée, and it made the events appear in stark contrast to how they had been previously, before the break up.

"I love you," Mycroft whispered into Greg's silver hair.

"I love you, too," Greg swore into Mycroft's neck.

"You still love her," Mycroft said, because he was a masochist at times.

"I know."

"What are you going to do?"

"I have no idea."

Eventually, Mycroft got a warm towel, cleaned them both up, and made tea. He took the burnt casserole out of the oven, tossing it out. Then they curled up on the couch, Greg playing with Mycroft's hair, and Mycroft reading aloud from one of his classic novels, both of them wrapped up in a blanket. They moved to the bed after a while and fell asleep, wrapped around each other. Mycroft pretended to be asleep when Greg slipped out, leaving a lingering kiss on Mycroft's temple before he left.

XXX

"Where have you been?" Molly turned around on him. Greg had gone home to find that Molly was already at work. He changed clothes before going to Bart's. Molly was in the labs with Sherlock, John not in sight, likely at the surgery or with Mary.

Sherlock gave him a quick overview, his eyes narrowing. Greg ignored him, knowing he'd figure everything out anyways.

"We need to delay the wedding."

Molly paled. "How-how long?"

"I don't know, I don't even know if there'll be one after I tell you." Greg gulped.

She narrowed her eyes before understanding lit up her face. "You…you  _slept with him_?" she whispered. When he nodded, tears filled her eyes.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I thought I was over him. I really did," Greg had tears in his eyes as well. "I never, ever wanted to hurt you."

"You still love him," she sighed, looking at him with hurt but no anger.

"I love you too," he swore.

"I…I know you do. Greg, maybe you're right. We need some time apart to figure things out. Just…tell me when you decide."

"I…thank you," he said fervently. He left, then, seeing he was unwelcome.

XXX

Sherlock walked in without knocking to find his brother curled up on the couch, an empty plate with frosting on the ground by his feet.

He laid a hand on Mycroft's shoulder as he hid his head in the cushion. When he did look up at his little brother, he wasn't composed at all.

There was a deep pain in his eyes, and the lines on his face read the severity of his guilt.

"Caring isn't an advantage," he finally said. "It hurts."

"I know," Sherlock sat beside him, and, for the first time soberly since he was a child, he hugged his older brother. "I know it hurts." He paused for a moment. "It gets easier."

"Does it really?"

"I have to believe it will, but it helps to see them happy. People like us don't get happy endings, brother, but we have the power to make sure they do. And it helps."

They stayed like that for a while, silent, before Mycroft got up with enough strength to carry on. He would run the country, do what was necessary to ensure his loved ones' safety and happiness. Whether he would get his personal happiness didn't matter, in the end. He was Mycroft Holmes, after all, and he didn't need anyone.


End file.
